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Lake
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Graham Coxon
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1
Hiawatha's Departure
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By the shores of Gitche Gumee,
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By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
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At the doorway of the wigwam,
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In the early Summer morning,
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Hiawatha stood and waited.
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All the air was full of freshness,
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All the earth was bright and joyous,
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And before him, through the sunshine,
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Westward toward the neighboring forest
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Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo,
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Passed the bees, the honey-makers,
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Burning, singing in the sunshine.
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Bright above him shone the heavens,
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Level spread the lake before him;
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From its bosom leaped the sturgeon,
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Sparkling, flashing in the sunshine;
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On its margin the great forest
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Stood reflected in the water,
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Every tree-top had its shadow,
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Motionless beneath the water.
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From the brow of Hiawatha
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Gone was every trace of sorrow,
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As the fog from off the water,
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As the mist from off the meadow.
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With a smile of joy and gladness,
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With a look of exultation,
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As of one who in a vision
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Sees what is to be, but is not,
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Stood and waited Hiawatha.
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Toward the sun his hands were lifted,
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Both the palms spread out toward it,
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And between the parted fingers
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Fell the sunshine on his features,
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Flecked with light his naked shoulders,
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As it falls and flecks an oak-tree
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Through the rifted leaves and branches.
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O'er the water floating, flying,
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Something in the hazy distance,
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Something in the mists of morning,
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Loomed and lifted from the water,
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Now seemed floating, now seemed flying,
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Coming nearer, nearer, nearer.
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Was it Shingebis the diver?
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Or the pelican, the Shada?
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Or the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah?
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Or the white goose, Waw-be-wana,
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With the water dripping, flashing,
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From its glossy neck and feathers?
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It was neither goose nor diver,
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Neither pelican nor heron,
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O'er the water floating, flying,
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Through the shining mist of morning,
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But a birch canoe with paddles,
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Rising, sinking on the water,
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ripping, flashing in the sunshine;
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And within it came a people
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The Son of the Evening Star
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Can it be the sun descending
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O'er the level plain of water?
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Or the Red Swan floating, flying,
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Wounded by the magic arrow,
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Staining all the waves with crimson,
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With the crimson of its life-blood,
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Filling all the air with splendor,
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Filling all the air with plumage?
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Yes; it is the sun descending,
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Sinking down into the water;
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All the sky is stained with purple,
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All the water flushed with crimson!
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No; it is the Red Swan floating,
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Diving down beneath the water;
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To the sky its wings are lifted,
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With its blood the waves are reddened!
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Over it the Star of Evening
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Melts and trembles through the purple,
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Hangs suspended in the twilight,
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Walks in silence through the heavens.
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